


No October

by GiantsGirl (Mirkwoodmaiden)



Category: Baseball RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24333403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirkwoodmaiden/pseuds/GiantsGirl
Summary: This is a epic poem I wrote about the 2013 San Francisco Giants. One year after the 2012 World Series victory.  Why did I write about a team that failed and not the team that won.  I don't know.  Maybe because we learn more about people from how they react to failure rather than victory.  I have no idea what people will think about it but I will post it any way.
Kudos: 3





	No October

No October

No October. There will no October this year.  
Not for the Twenty-five at Third and King. Not this year.  
No Flags flying. No orange and black confetti  
Wafting down from on high littering Market with  
Reminders of Joy Unbound. Reasons both prosaic  
And mythic surround but there will be no October this year.  
Not for the Twenty-five at Third and King.

No October…

Full of expectation, March began. The memories of  
An Improbable, Impossible run lingering in the emotions  
Of the Faithful. The mantra in the Glorious Fall before had been… 

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

In that Glorious Fall, a beloved and beleaguered slight one  
With long, dark locks accepted fate’s decision with grace and dignity  
And excelled beyond imagination.

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

A wide-eyed one speaking from the heart binding all  
With the words, “One more day together…” and “nothing but love”  
Belief creating its own energy. Red was defeated.

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

A Young Titan surpassing all hope  
Unleashing dreams with one swing of the bat.  
All honors waiting upon the naming only.

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

Backs to the wall, an oft-maligned one gives  
A performance for the Ages and leads the Orange and Black  
Back to the shores of McCovey Cove.

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

A Veteran at the keystone playing with the heart of a Giant;  
Arms spread wide with wonderment and joy in the rainy night  
Making dreams come true; his and many others.

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

A horse who stood tall throughout. The hill his home.  
One Perfect Night serving as prologue to his October.  
Stoic guardian of the threshold; thrice Victorious .

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

Many coming together that Glorious Fall to form one perfect thought.  
Believe…  
In each other and in the ultimate goal  
“Nothing but love” to quote the wide-eyed one.

Pelea! The Fall Classic awaits… 

Three balls over the wall by one who was forgotten.  
Forgotten no longer; forever etched in the memory of  
One thought unbeatable; a panda rounds the bases. 

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

Forever linked with the Babe and Mr. October.  
The words of his mother soon to echo…“Never wake up!”  
No truer words…For it did seem a dream.

Pelea! Pelea! Pelea!

In the Ultimate game the Young Titan once again  
Sent a ball into the cold Midwestern night  
With a swing so beautiful as to seem unreal.  
And That joy once so elusive for the Orange and Black  
Was once again within their grasp.

Pelea! Indeed….

An unlikely hero, Slight of build but with the heart and hope  
Of his twenty-four brothers coursing through his veins  
Caught three crowns looking.  
A gigantic whoop and Joy Unleashed.

Pelea! Indeed….

Ever grateful; ever humble. “Beyond Blessed”  
Were the words of the slightly built young man  
With the soulful dark eyes.

Pelea! Indeed….

The improbable, joyous dream had become reality  
On that cold windswept night in the Motor City,  
And Swept the Faithful into rapturous bliss.

Pelea! Indeed…

Dream became reality for one who had traveled the globe  
In search of the dream that almost disappeared in a  
Venezuelan winter. Home beckoned with last hope.  
Back to where he started. The soft Pennsylvanian accent  
Belying the steeled soul that was forged in almost nameless places  
Strewn across two continents, the dream folded into his soul  
Tattered and tested, this one wanted to complete his journey  
With those who had first shown him belief. Full Circle.

Pelea, indeed…

Victory remembered; Victory shared. Orange and black confetti  
Mark joy unrestrained on Market. The twenty-five and the Faithful  
Celebrating together. Trophies gleaming; hearts overflowing.

Pelea…Remembered

Only a few hearts missing in spring. Gathered again in the Desert  
March was confident that joy was attainable once again.  
Honours flowed early. Remembrances of the season past.  
Rings shone brightly. Pride glowed fiercely and Flags were raised.  
“Together” was the theme and the emotions confirmed it.  
The Twenty-five and the Faithful reveled in it and it was bliss.

Pelea…Remembered

Last season’s foe shared the field and the memories  
Though theirs were less sweet. Reality quickly set in.  
On the day the rings glittered brightly  
Nine runs to the Redbirds was the early score.  
A foretelling of inexplicable adversity, unmarked at the time.  
Last season’s horse beaten soundly did not give pause.  
Though in hindsight it should have.

In this lost year…

A brilliant star’s light, two years strong, was suddenly fragmented.  
Hits fell in and too many footfalls across home plate.  
The soft Pennsylvanian accent had no words,  
No excuses, except simply stated, “Not good enough.”  
The struggle would continue but,  
The will within that fierce, beating heart shone strong.

In this lost year…

May followed April; the laboring efforts continued.  
Each start leading to more questions than answers.  
Breaking point nearing, the steeled soul takes the mound.  
This star’s light, so fragmented of late, seemed to unite once again.  
Pitches hitting corners, in and out, up and down in the familiar, bewildering dance  
The Faithful had come to know through the last two storybook seasons.  
Breathe held through the troublesome fifth. Third out recorded.  
Shut out in progress. A stadium rejoices.  
But this joy was not meant to last, apparently…

In this lost year…

The steeled-souled one stepped into the box and turned into the pitch.  
Fatefully ball meets hand and a season is lost.  
Truth known immediately; vain hope lies that it is not grave.  
A stadium quiet as reality sets in. The soft Pennsylvanian voice  
Is unsmiling, sober and as ever resolute. He will return.  
All those who know that heart do not doubt,  
But for now, the light that again glowed so briefly and brightly  
Will have to wait once more to shine, however brightly it may.

In this lost year…

Looking back, the Faithful should known, should have seen the signs.  
But perhaps this was the first of many signs that went unmarked.  
Love not wanting to see the warning of what may be.  
Hint of Failure across the heart of hope blissfully ignored.

In this lost year…

A rotation three-years strong, beyond all belief, faltered.  
Eyebrows raised. Thoughts were wondered but dismissed  
The sight before our eyes unseeable, unthinkable.  
And yet it was…

In this lost year…

Amid the disbelief, April bats came alive bashing hits left, right, and center.  
It was as if the batsmen were willing victories into existence.  
For once being the strength of the team so often carried by its staff.  
Returning the favor.

In this lost year…

Papering over cracks; Giant footfalls crossing the plate  
In the ninth and beyond. Victory after victory…  
Giant bats speaking for the team;  
Waiting for the moundmen to find their voice;  
So strong in years past.

In this lost year…

The beloved and beleaguered one, now shorn of his locks  
Torn between the folly of recapturing his past and  
Forging a new way, searched for answers after a shortened spring.  
An April of promise; followed by a disheartening May…  
More questions than answers weighed heavily upon  
Slight shoulders which had borne so much already.  
Change…never easy for this one…seemed to beckon.  
Only time would tell…

In this lost year…

Comeback win after Comeback win.  
The Twenty-five were becoming known for them.  
It seemed there was still October magic left in the April grass.  
But little did we know, little did we see,  
In that bright and beautiful April, the times that lay ahead  
Or maybe we just did not want to...

In this lost year…

May entered and the bats were still alive hopeful, ever hopeful  
That the moundmen could find their way; their voice.  
It was not to be. One name so dependable, so durable.  
Performance so engrained as to be expected, disappeared.  
Left in its place the shape and form of past Perfection strangely muted.  
Footfalls across the plate and balls followed with disbelieving eyes  
Into the bleachers beyond. No excuses offered,  
Just a simple, “need to make better pitches.”

In this lost year…

Joy still existed. Twenty-five hearts refusing to bow to forces unknown and  
Unknowable. Willing victories into existence amid bewildered pitching and  
Gloves that could no longer flash the brilliance of Fall.  
Still heart and hope produced unbridled joy; later bittersweet.  
An Angel flew around the bases on a late May afternoon  
Electrifying the Faithful with a purchased moment of bliss;  
Only later would the cost become fully understood…

In this lost year…

May 25, that date ingrained upon the Giant soul, the day the Young Titan  
Was taken out by a fool two years previous, had once again stolen our season.  
The moment of purchased bliss saw our Angel gone, only to return in September.  
Leaving all to murmur, “If only…” 

If only…in this lost year…

If only…the pitching would have remembered itself sooner...  
If only…the hitting would have remembered what RISP was…  
If only…the gloves would remember what it was to field flawlessly…  
If only…the three aspects of the game, bat, arm and glove could have woven  
Themselves together to create the beauty of 2012.

But in this lost year; it was not to be. 

June arrived bringing with it hope and despair in seemingly equal measure.  
The moundmen, at least the starting five, found their voice.  
Zero upon zero made their way unto the scoreboard.  
The beloved and beleaguered one found a way through,  
Given by a friend and Zeros were his reward.  
Learning, changing, understanding the possible,  
A Renaissance of sorts was waiting if he could grasp it.  
Only Time would tell…

In this lost year…

Heart never waivered but execution was lacking.  
Balls just out of reach of Giant gloves; seemingly forever within reach  
Of opposing ones. Hits, runs, victories stolen at a heartbreaking rate.  
Giant hearts were asked time and time again to forget and forge onwards.  
Forget and forge onwards… 

In this lost year…

One stood tall. An old soul, green eyes peering above glove.  
Readying for the release. So Young and yet so Strong;  
Asking to be leaned on. And lean they did. Through a harrowing June  
Only the one affectionately named Bum was able to stem the tide.  
Victory and Redemption. A team breathes easier as it is protected  
By its young, strong North Carolinian oak.

In this lost year…

The bats fell silent. After speaking for so long.  
Waiting for the moundmen to echo their success,  
The bats fell silent just as the moundmen were sounding off;  
Finding their voices at last.  
The beloved one and the horse rivaled each other  
To produce sterling yet unrewarded effort.  
Only the old soul with green eyes peering was able to  
Make the meager offerings of the batsmen stand up for victory.  
Three times; four game losing streaks were stemmed  
By the one affectionately named Bum.

In this lost year…

June retreated. Losses to be erased from minds of the Twenty-five.  
July dawned with new hope. Battle was joined with Red  
Still smarting from October defeat. A Homer named Bailey  
Silenced the Orange and Black bats through nine.  
The search for rock bottom had begun and  
Proved most elusive throughout the coming weeks.

The search for rock bottom in this lost year…

Eighteen runners left on…  
Two of three lost at home to the Enemy…  
Red defeat at home…  
12-1 to the Carmine hose  
Many candidates for the dubious “honour”

In this lost year…

There were moments…there was heaven.  
One moment of pure bliss, one moment of pure joy.  
One moment for which there is truly only one word.

Euphoria…

One night in July on the road. Well…AT&T South…  
Time stood still for the beloved, slight one…  
One affectionately known to the Faithful only by his first name. Timmy…  
One-hundred and forty-eight pitches to achieve Baseball Immortality.  
The wide-eyed one diving full, ensnaring that which would have destroyed the magic.  
The slight one captured from behind with love from his catcher;  
Jarring him back to blissful reality:

Iconic Image…  
No-hitter…

First career and 15th franchise for the beloved and beleaguered one.  
Brightest spot in a lost year. Teammates overjoyed for the slight one,  
Surrounding him. Ever-loved, ever-protected.

Time stood still…

Always expected; sweeter now after all that had passed.  
Wet from the dousing, stunned happiness smoothed  
The all-too frequent worry lines; luminous joy shining through.

Brightest spot in a lost year…

Home not so sweet; the shores of McCovey Cove  
Did not prove the comforting ground that it had always been.  
Thought to be a time of re-gathering after a harsh June  
July proved to be an even-further test of their hearts.  
As loss upon loss weighed upon the Twenty-five.  
Struggling so desperately hard to succeed,  
To recapture the magic; to be who they knew they could be.  
To be who they were, just the year previous.  
To field the ball; To hit the ball.  
Seemingly such simple tasks…Until they are not.  
Hope slipping away with each stranded runner; each misplayed ball.  
No excuses offered as individual slumps gave way to  
Cascading failure…all are touched; all are failing.  
Even the Young Titan cannot save the team. Offense in freefall.  
Struggles so profound left a manager speechless.

In this lost year… 

Nadir reached as ball rolled through the legs of  
An awkward baby giraffe allowing bear cubs the victory  
Giant bats silent; an acquiescence, not an attack  
Squandering beautiful gems from  
The horse, Bum and the beloved, slight one.  
“Shame on us” the manager said, frustration palpable.

In this lost year…

This team, this family, this band of brothers  
Unable to weave the magic of 2012.  
Frustration, disbelief rife from within and without.  
The Twenty-five and the Faithful alike  
Could not fathom the reasons for such failure.  
No excuses were given. Only snapshots of a Hunter’s heart.  
“When you are going through hell, you just have to keep on walking,”  
Said the wide-eyed one whose natural optimism fought with reality  
And lit the clubhouse from within.

In this lost year…

They had won as a team and they were now losing as team.  
What gave them strength; what gave them such unimaginable victory:  
Seemingly taking victory from them now. Pressing, Grinding, Working.  
Wanting so much to be The One to bring happiness back to the clubhouse.  
Music and Joy the fruits of victory....Silent clubhouse in loss.  
Clubbies pounding dirt from cleats only sound punctuating.  
Each player, trying so hard, succeeding only to bring more defeat.  
Slow roller to Second. Strikeout with bases loaded… 

In this lost year…

It might have broken different men.  
It might have rent asunder the soul of competitive fire  
Breaking apart that which had always joined them;  
What brought them together as one. But Together they stayed.  
Bound by love, Bound by success. Now Bound by loss.  
The bond holds firm. First bound by Success. Soft bond first forged.  
Then bound by Adversity. Tougher bond forged by circumstance.  
Bound always by love. “The strongest thing we have.” A Hunter’s words.  
Easy to love through Success. Harder to love through Adversity.  
The tacit question answered. 

In this lost year…

Nothing was as it was. For good or for bad. Mystifying journey of  
The oft-maligned one. So strong at home; could not recapture  
The Magic of the October just past. On the road; luck, skill…  
All seemed to desert him. It was almost as if he’d struck a deal  
With the Baseball Gods, giving away all future away success  
If they would just give him that One Shining Moment.  
Deal seemingly struck, and he never would have another road victory  
in the Orange and Black.

In this lost year…

The bright star returned in early August, against all expectation.  
But knowing that heart, full of drive and passion, it should have surprised no one.  
That steeled soul was determined to be a part of the team he loved so much.  
A few pins and a few broken bones would not deter.  
At first he was excellent. Spot on, though the fastball  
Lacked a little in velocity. Held the Carmine hose to two through seven  
And the Offense managed to score just enough to make it stand up.

In this lost year…

Nothing was quite the same, though and the man with the  
Soft Pennsylvanian accent could not find the same pitches.  
Footfalls across the plate; balls just out of reach  
Of gloves striving to help. Too many over the wall.  
Draw a line under his season. Begin again in Spring.  
The steeled soul sitting at his locker on last day  
Hopes it will be Scottsdale. Brothers to be together again.

In this lost year…

The Twenty-five at Third and King continued to fight,  
Continued to work. Continued to grind out the days.  
Hoping that they could somehow recapture what was.  
Struggling against the unknowable forces that had silenced their bats  
And stiffened their gloves from within and without.  
So much expectation from within placed pressure upon the heart.  
To succeed; To help; To be the One to lift his brothers. To no avail…

In this lost year…

Not only were they failing; their enemy storming through  
The door left open by them. Creating their own thunder.  
Eye can hardly bear to see the success taken from their own hands.  
Ultimate victory slipping away day by day.  
Dreams of October fading away amid the stark reality of  
August play against stern and talented opposition.  
Again the moundmen excelling themselves trying to claw back  
the successes they let slip away in a tired and bewildering April.  
Only near perfection can achieve victory. 

In this lost year…

Time and time again…the offense cannot break out through.  
Epic failure marks the dog days of August.  
The bats sparked a few games and hope flared that they had found their way,  
At long last. But each time it proved nothing other than false fire. Save one…

In this lost year…

An awkward giraffe found his feet after many struggles,  
Much of them his own making. Resisting change, he flailed.  
At the nadir he was asked again. Finally ready, he conceded  
And Belt was not only his name but became the narrative of his at-bats.  
Pounding the ball as all of the Freebelt movement knew he could.  
Success through acceptance of change; a brightly lit hope for the future  
Was leading what offense there was in the now. It was a joy to see.

In this lost year…

Hope for October receded slowly, fitfully, reluctantly.  
The heart resistant to what the head already knew.  
Aug 10th, a milestone in Giants hopeful lore,  
The day in 1951 when the Orange and Black truly began  
Their miraculous accent to the National League Pennant.  
13½ games back of the Enemy. Storming through  
The schedule. Tormenting Dodgers. Last day of 157…  
Pure bliss that lives through the Ages. “There’s a long fly, I believe…”  
Aug 10th also marked a win in this tormented season of denied expectation.  
Vain hope flourished. Folly disguised as vain hope, really.  
There would be no grand charge, no rush to the finish.  
But the heart hopes long after the head has accepted.  
The two keeping separate company for a while. 

Weathering this lost year…

True Fans still filled the beautiful gem at Third and King  
Long after the head accepted that there would be No October.  
There was still love, still cheering for our boys though  
The season was not what anyone had hoped for.  
It was nothing that was expected.  
And yet it became something more. 

In this lost year…

It was a love affair confirmed.  
A bond created through Championship and strengthened through loss.  
Last place in the standings but still first in the hearts of the Faithful.

In this lost year…

Our boys saw trials, injuries, ill luck, inexplicable happenings  
Marr their season but it never marred they hearts. They never stopped trying.  
Through loss, through adversity, through countless bad breaks.  
They never stopped trying. No excuses were made.  
Together. The Twenty-five and the Faithful weathered the storm Together.  
A few sprinkled boos, a few misspoken words from one so young  
And so passionate were not wrong. Hearts so full can only take so much  
Before expression must be made, Frustration borne from love can always  
Be understood. And there was love. For a last place team; for the  
Twenty-five who continually searched for answers. Finding none that would satisfy  
In a frustrating August. Third losing month…

In this lost year…

Still such heart and drive. Through August and September.  
Striving towards first base. Infield single. Rally started.  
Full extension dive…ball caught…rally diverted.  
Nine pitches…bases loaded…no outs…  
One run to the good…Save recorded…Closer status confirmed.  
Time and Time again Twenty-five hearts always striving.  
Win or lose there was always effort.  
Made the Faithful proud to wear the Orange and Black.  
Champions in all but placing. Could not be prouder.

In this lost year…

September was kinder to the Orange and Black. An Angel returned,  
Full happy and healthy. Missed more than could be imagined.  
Bright spark that had been taken from us in May after a moment  
Of pure but dearly purchased bliss. An Angel returned to the outfield.  
A team and its faithful rejoice to see him rounding the bases with  
Remembered swiftness and passion. Happiness began again.  
An Angel returned to the outfield.

In this lost year…

There were still moments of …Near Perfection.  
A September night of precision and beauty.  
A 63-78 team and a journeyman pitcher sparkled this night.  
Ninety-two pitches; twenty-six batters retired  
Full count. Ball flies shallow, the wide-eyed one sprints…  
In this lost year…it was not to be. Perfection denied.  
“My bad” are the words mouthed by the wide-eyed one  
To the Journeyman of such heart and precision. Twice demoted  
He chose to stay and was rewarded with this night of near-perfection,  
Such heart refused to yield and ends with arms held high  
In exultation of what he and his brothers did create. One-hit gem.

In this lost year…

All but out of it; The Twenty-five refused to stop trying.  
Not a desperate drive to see October but a concerted effort  
To genuinely play better. If only to prove to themselves that  
They were the players they knew themselves to be.  
And to give every effort to play better for the 41,000 strong  
Who still showed up every night at Third and King  
With energy and love for their boys no matter the standings.

In this lost year…

On the two days they were mathematically eliminated from the race,  
All hope giving way to the finality of numbers; they posted wins.  
At home. For themselves and for their fans.  
Coming back both times; rallying late in the game  
Winning runs driven in by the young giraffe  
Having found his way; showing the heart and fight  
Of a team that refused to lay down. 

In this lost year…

When also-rans normally “look to the future” September saw  
Veterans fight to stay in the lineup and young pups  
straining for a chance to show what they could do.

In this lost year…

The last road trip beckoned. Seen early in the year this series of games  
Loomed full of possibility and September promise.  
Four against the Enemy in their yard, then NY bound.  
First time since ’57 would the Orange and Black reside  
In Manhattan…or the close environs of Queens and the Bronx.  
It would have been Epic. In fact it quite was. 

In this lost year…

The Enemy had charged, running classless roughshod  
Over the league. Spared little humiliation throughout the season  
The unkindest cut of all would have been to see the hated ones rip the crown  
From the head of our boys and to celebrate what the twenty-five  
Tried so desperately hard to achieve, only to fail.

In this lost year… 

Chance to spare the last humiliation. Facing an old friend  
Now with the Enemy. Round one goes to the old friend.  
Over the next three it would be different.  
The slight, beloved on the mound, always strong against the Enemy.  
Goes six strong allowing only three.  
A Hunter and the bats take care of the rest.  
The slight, beloved, always so starved for runs in his efforts  
Is given nineteen. A two month’s supply achieved in  
One historic night. The wide-eyed one driving in seven.  
Four in one glorious, healing swing in the fifth.  
September bats, some young eager to show;  
some old remembering their skills, come alive. A catharsis of sorts  
Against the old Enemy. Showing what they were and  
What they would be again. Most runs ever scored at the Ravine.  
A reminder…though we may have stumbled  
We will not be forgotten. The wide eyed one sent five  
Over the wall in that glorious weekend.  
The small victory achieved.

In this lost year…

New York beckoned and it was love transported and love revisited.  
Scores of the Faithful made the journey long planned  
In hopes of pennant battles transported. It was not to be.  
But it served testament to all of love borne by the Faithful  
For the Orange and Black. NY sons were making “home debuts”  
And names for themselves simultaneously.  
New York was awash in the Faithful.  
So much so that after two of three were taken in Queens  
A standing O was given to a stunned Twenty-five.  
Small humble waves given back to the Faithful.

In this lost year…

The beloved and not quite so beleaguered one  
Found himself on the mound surrounded by the  
New stadium that Ruth built, to battle the potent lineup.  
His slight frame stood proudly on the hill and faced them down,  
Giving up that which would have only been an easy F9  
At the gem of Third and King. 1-0 to the Pinstripes.  
Next batter he worked 3-0 to full. Sweet split-change  
Swung and missed K 2-3. History casually tossed away into  
Wrong dugout. Perhaps even unaware. Only two stood before him.  
Tom Terrific and Be-Home Blyleven in all of Major League history.  
Only seven years to accumulate fifteen hundred strikeouts.

In this lost year…

The beloved one stood before history unfazed by the moment.  
“It’s cool. But we lost…” the slight one stated in a chagrined tone  
when asked to expound. As ever the only thing that has ever  
really mattered to him…his family.

In this lost year…

The twenty-five from Third and King got to touch history  
Be there for a new moment in Pinstripe lore. Of which there are many.  
Rivera the great one was leaving the game. Leaving a trail of  
Shattered bats in his wake. One pitch saw him through his greatness.  
Known and never vanquished. The Orange and Black were there to  
Share his day and mark the moment that greatness leaves the game.

In this lost year…

But this is baseball and all play to win. And a son of the Bronx made his own mark,  
At least upon this game. Single to left and tying run rounding third.  
Up with the ball, this Bronx son fires a strike to the plate.  
Third out registered. Lead still intact. Played on this ground as a child;  
Imagined scene replayed constantly in a young mind now a reality.  
In the ninth Stood in against greatness and saw his ball tip off a glove  
And into centerfield. Base hit achieved, one to be remembered,  
At least by this transplanted son of the Bronx.

In this lost year…

The slight one with the soulful dark eyes shared the mound with Rivera  
And he stood tall and toed the rubber, scraped away dirt from the  
Same slab that the Sandman had touched only one inning before.  
He reveled in the moment and then got the job done.  
Victory went to the Giants that day, but the memories stayed with the Sandman.

In this lost year…

Moments build. What may and may not be. At home to the Enemy  
The slight, beloved one takes the mound. Emotions swirl.  
Seven years of what was and may be no more. Hope against Hope that this is not  
The end. Memories crowd in. A young, slight fireballer capturing  
The imagination of a city. Violently beautiful motion  
Mystifying hitters. Exultant one, dark hair flying, raised on shoulders in Game Five.  
All hope this is not the end, for he is beloved. Cannot believe it may be.  
Regardless, the gem is filled with those there to say “thank you.”  
The slight, beloved one leads the Enemy down the garden path.  
Seven strong, two runs and the noxious one K’d three times; a gift.  
The Angel provides the power and the Orange and Black are victorious.  
The slight beloved one does not receive the W, but his brothers do.  
The only thing that has ever really mattered to him…his family.

In this lost year…

Small victories were won. Last place evaded. Third and respectability  
Possible. Familiar foe there to draw a line under the year.  
Once again the Friars are there helping to define our season.

In this lost year…

Punctuating all seasons are the men who make up the team.  
What stories will they write through the course of 162?  
What spirit, what heart, what impressions will be made?  
Given to those who exemplify the best there is to give  
Willie Mac bestows the team honor in his name every September  
To that one who gives, who inspires, the one who is deserving.  
A heart that never wavered, the wide-eyed one receives,  
“God, you didn’t give me grace, you didn’t give me style.  
But you did give me heart and a chance… Thank you.”  
Nothing but love, indeed. Next day it is revealed that wide-eyed one will be  
Staying on the shores of McCovey Cove five seasons longer,  
The joy written on his face there for all to see.

Last day of a lost year…

41,000 have gathered to say good bye to their boys.  
The day opened with energy and hope. Happy just to be there.  
To cheer our boys and maybe help them to a piece of third place.  
In this season the Faithful learned to embrace joy when found  
Because one did not know when it would again reappear.

Last day of a lost year…

The Eighth inning began and the crowd erupted.  
Number 75 trotting to the bullpen mound.  
Strangely muted farewell four games previous.  
Crowd denied its moment. Grasping it now for all it is worth.  
Game 6-5 now, the Friars lead cut to one slender run.  
The young hope entered. Twenty-four years old and 95 mph.  
Two quick outs and the manager walked to the mound  
Signaling for the Lefty. Number 75 trots in from the pen and  
Raucous love pours onto the field from the stands.  
One lone booer gets pinned by a look from my mother and is silenced.

In this lost year…

Memories crowd in. Game Five will live in the hearts of the Faithful  
And they said “thank you” on the last day with their cheers  
And their signs and a few tears. Number 75 faces an old friend.  
Cutter, curve, foul, 84 mph fastball. “Sneaky fast”  
Swung and missed strike three. Storybook end to a memorable career.  
A Man of class and dignity strides off the mound; he tips his cap.  
And the crowd’s cheers magnify. Teammates—friends really—refuse him the dugout.  
Send him out instead to receive more love from the crowd so willing to give it.

In this lost year…

The crowd is saying good bye…  
Some till the Spring. Some for good. Others unsure.  
It is good bye and thank you. All know that it was  
Not the season we wanted. It was not the season we expected.  
It was at times very hard. At times wonderfully joyous.  
All seasons have a story. A story that is slowly written.  
Unfolding daily one never knows where it will go.  
Where it will take us. A champagne-soaked clubhouse and  
Confetti strewn across Market, a million gathered joyously,  
Cell phones towers weeping has been our good fortune of late.  
But that is rare and to be treasured for the rarity it is.  
This story just ended differently and the love remains strong.  
It was the story of Twenty-five men with heart and character  
Trying their best, enduring injury and exhaustion,  
Expectation and disappointment. Change and acceptance.  
Too little brilliance and too much indifferent play.  
There were welcomes and goodbyes. And uncertainty. 

It was messy; It was life. 

And like all good stories it ends with hope.  
The crowd beside itself with joy and expectation.  
All disappointment with the season having disappeared,  
Lost in the perfect moment of expectation.  
The cheering, all standing, pounding, hoping.  
Expectant Joy is a palpable living thing  
In the stands at the gem of Third and King.

Bases loaded.  
Nobody out. 

A Hunter full of heart and will and passion is at the plate.  
Desperate measures by the Friars leave two guarding the outfield.  
Pitch is thrown and the wide-eyed one, full of hope and promise  
Drives the ball through the air, splitting the outfielders perfectly.  
It rolls to the wall and joyous pandemonium breaks loose…

In this lost year…

The Giants have not won the pennant…  
But from the raucous celebrations on the field  
And in the stands an outsider just looking in  
Could be forgiven for thinking so.  
In saying goodbye to the season in such a way  
Seeds of hope for the next have been planted in  
The fertile ground of loyalty and love,  
“It is the strongest thing that we have…”  
so says our Hunter, the wide-eyed one full of hope and happiness.

Spring will be here soon…


End file.
